'Don't make me speak to you again,' Smokey said. 'This is your last warning, and don't you think I don't mean it.'
As it had against Osmond, Jack's fury suddenly rose up - that sort of fury, closely linked as it is to a sense of hopeless injustice, is perhaps never as strong as it is at twelve - college students sometimes think they feel it, but it is usually little more than an intellectual echo.
This time it boiled over.
'I'm not your dog, so don't you treat me like I am,' Jack said, and took a step toward Smokey Updike on legs that were still rubbery with fear.
Surprised - possibly even flabbergasted - by Jack's totally unexpected anger, Smokey backed up a step.
'Jack, I'm warning you - '
'No, man, I'm warning you,' Jack heard himself say. 'I'm not Lori. I don't want to be hit. And if you hit me, I'm going to hit you back, or something.'
Smokey Updike's discomposure was only momentary. He had most assuredly not seen everything - not living in Oatley, he hadn't - but he thought he had, and even for a minor leaguer, sometimes assurance can be enough.
He reached out to grab Jack's collar.
'Don't you smart off to me, Jack,' he said, drawing Jack close. 'As long as you're in Oatley, my dog is just what you are. As long as you're in Oatley I'll pet you when I want and I'll beat you when I want.'
He adminstered a single neck-snapping shake. Jack bit his tongue and cried out. Hectic spots of anger now glowed in Smokey's pale cheeks like cheap rouge.
'You may not think that is so right now, but Jack, it is. As long as you're in Oatley you're my dog, and you'll be in Oatley until I decide to let you go. And we might as well start getting that learned right now.'
He pulled his fist back. For a moment the three na**d sixty-watt bulbs which hung in this narrow hallway sparkled crazily on the diamond chips of the horseshoe-shaped pinky ring he wore. Then the fist pistoned forward and slammed into the side of Jack's face. He was driven backward into the graffiti-covered wall, the side of his face first flaring and then going numb. The taste of his own blood washed into his mouth.
Smokey looked at him - the close, judgmental stare of a man who might be thinking about buying a heifer or a lottery number. He must not have seen the expression he wanted to see in Jack's eye, because he grabbed the dazed boy again, presumably the better to center him for a second shot.
At that moment a woman shrieked, from the Tap, 'No, Glen! No!' There was a tangle of bellowing male voices, most of them alarmed. Another woman screamed - a high, drilling sound. Then a gunshot.
'Shit on toast!' Smokey cried, enunciating each word as carefully as an actor on a Broadway stage. He threw Jack back against the wall, whirled, and slammed out through the swinging door. The gun went off again and there was a scream of pain.
Jack was sure of only one thing - the time had come to get out. Not at the end of tonight's shift, or tomorrow's, or on Sunday morning. Right now.
The uproar seemed to be quieting down. There were no sirens, so maybe nobody had gotten shot . . . but, Jack remembered, cold, the millhand who looked like Randolph Scott was still down in the men's can.
Jack went into the chilly, beer-smelling storeroom, knelt by the kegs, and felt around for his pack. Again there was that suffocating certainty, as his fingers encountered nothing but thin air and the dirty concrete floor, that one of them - Smokey or Lori - had seen him hide the pack and had taken it. All the better to keep you in Oatley, my dear. Then relief, almost as suffocating as the fear, when his fingers touched the nylon.
Jack donned the pack and looked longingly toward the loading door at the back of the storeroom. He would much rather use that door - he didn't want to go down to the fire-door at the end of the hall. That was too close to the men's bathroom. But if he opened the loading door, a red light would go on at the bar. Even if Smokey was still sorting out the ruckus on the floor, Lori would see that light and tell him.
So . . .
He went to the door which gave on the back corridor. He eased it open a crack and applied one eye. The corridor was empty. All right, that was cool. Randolph Scott had tapped a kidney and gone back to where the action was while Jack was getting his backpack. Great.
Yeah, except maybe he's still in there. You want to meet him in the hall, Jacky? Want to watch his eyes turn yellow again? Wait until you're sure.
But he couldn't do that. Because Smokey would see he wasn't out in the Tap, helping Lori and Gloria swab tables, or behind the bar, unloading the dishwasher. He would come back here to finish teaching Jack what his place was in the great scheme of things. So -
So what? Get going!
Maybe he's in there waiting for you, Jacky . . . maybe he's going to jump out just like a big bad Jack-in-the-Box . . .